A Line to Cross
by blogyourfeelings
Summary: Set in an AU in which Molly isn't exactly enamoured with Sherlock when they first meet. But as events unfold, and Moriarty is added to the mix, their relationship begins to develop.
1. The World's Smuggest Detective

"I need to know what bruises form in next twenty minutes. A man's alibi depends on it. Text me."

"Well then you can stay and watch for yourself, because I have other work to do, Sherlock." Molly snaps back at the consulting detective.

"Listening to Glee in the break-room and drinking coffee is not work," Sherlock responds snidely, placing the riding crop down on the metal slab next to the poor, dead sod he'd just battered it with. "But if you're making it, I have it black with two sugars."

Sherlock strolls off before she can retort, most likely headed to the lab, his expensive leather shoes squeaking as he goes. Probably planning some ridiculous, messy experiment designed to drive Molly crazy.

"Black with two sugars," Molly mocks, imitating his deep, baritone voice. She picks up the riding crop, thinking about how much she'd like to torture the infuriating detective with it, and definitely not in a good way. She shakes her head, muttering darkly to herself exactly what she thinks of Sherlock Holmes. _"Arsehole."_

* * *

Molly finds John Watson's presence in the lab a delightful contrast to Sherlock. His coat doesn't swing in the air as he dances about the morgue, with disregard from any types of protocol or politeness. John listens intently whenever she speaks, jotting down odd phrases on the notepad he carries when the pair are on cases. He has serious nature, with a military-like precision and efficiency that evokes Molly's admiration. But he always has a genuine smile on hand for anyone, a warmth about his presence that Sherlock definitely lacks. The former army doctor is the perfect balance to the consulting detective.

"Why don't you get on?" John blurts out to her one day in the lab. Sherlock's distractedly studying some scraping from the bottom of an old shoe that's relevant to their case. He eyes the consulting detective, before expanding on his enquiry. "You and Sherlock. Why don't you get on?"

"Because I spent years of my life at medical school with men like him," Molly explains, her mouth set in a thin line. "Arrogant. Dismissive. I could go on."

John gives a wry chuckle. "He's not all bad, you know. He is arrogant and dismissive…but he's all right sometimes."

Molly winces, before smiling sympathetically at the doctor. "I'll take your word for it, John. I don't know how you can stand to live with him."

"It's not for anyone with a weak stomach," John admits, a disturbed, far-away look in his eyes.

Sherlock has little care for decency in public, so Molly can only imagine what he gets up to in the privacy of 221B.

"I'm surprised that you don't get on. You have a similar interest in the, erm-" John pauses to think of the appropriate word and balks at Molly's questioning gaze. "Morbid?" John finishes, the word coming out as a question rather than a statement.

"Yes, but I don't celebrate every time there's a serial murderer in London," Molly throws a dark, disapproving look the consulting detective's way. He's far too enthralled with his current case to notice it, or be bothered to tune in to the pathologist and doctor's conversation.

"Yeah, that's pretty unique to Sherlock," John replies, a friendly affection in his voice. Molly hopes whatever happens, that affection will not end badly for the kind ex-solider.

"Exactly," Molly responds, her shrewd brown eyes narrowed at the curly haired detective.

John's eyes whip up to Molly with a new question in his eyes. He flashes her a cheeky half-smile while nudging her side. "So tell me about this new bloke you've been seeing?"

Molly feels her dark mood lift, and girly sense of coyness flood her as her mouth stretches into a wide grin. "You mean Jim? Oh John, he's lovely!"

* * *

Jim turns out to be... not so lovely. That's what she tells her friends anyway, when they ask why she's not going on a fourth date with the cute guy from IT.

Sherlock Holmes is one of the few individuals to know the truth of what a crazed, murderous liar Jim Moriarty truly is.

"Before you say anything, Sherlock," Molly greets, pausing mid-autopsy. It's the first time she's been face-to-face with the detective since the reveal of Moriarty's true identity. She holds up the equipment she's planning on using on the old man currently lying on the slab in front of her. Instead of concentrating on him, she fixes a threatening glare at Sherlock. "I've got a bone saw in my hands and I'm not afraid to use it."

Sherlock looks at her with amusement gleaming in his eyes. "I'm not here to comment on your truly horrendous taste in men, Molly," Sherlock assures, though the width of his grin does nothing to placate her. "Just here to pick up some toes."

Molly's stare flicks over her shoulder. "They're over there," She says, pointing to a container on the other side of the room.

Sherlock collects the box, cradling it under his armpit. "Thank you, Dr Hooper," Sherlock says softly, nodding his head at her as he heads towards the door.

Molly is not only thrown off by the politeness of the detective, but the distinct lack of teasing about being duped by Moriarty. Perhaps he cannot savour in her misfortune, because he too had failed to spot the well worn facade by Moriarty. But Sherlock has always been one to point out the mistakes of others, just as loudly as he enjoys proclaiming his own genius.

When Sherlock pokes his head back through the door, Molly is hands deep in the old man's chest cavity. "Molly?" He prompts, waiting from her to glance up. A huge, smug smile erupts across his face. "I didn't know sociopaths were your type," He teases, winking at her for added measure. The world's only consulting detective then proceeds to scamper off before she can get her blood soaked hands on him.

She sighs in defeat, looking down at the pale, bloody corpse. Picking up the bonesaw, she murmurs to the lifeless man on the slab, but the joke is mostly for her own benefit. "One day, I'm going to kill that man."


	2. A Question of Trust

The lead up to Christmas always brings mixed feelings for Molly. Her father had passed just before Christmas, the cruellest time for a loved one to slip away. The sparkling tinsel and the jolly Christmas music in the hospital ward were a taunting contrast to her own misery. But as the years flew on, the reminiscent ache receded year on year. In the morgue, she would find herself humming along happily to old Christmas hits and hanging up festive decorations to brighten up the staffroom.

This December hadn't felt to different from all the others. John had invited her to the Christmas Eve party at Baker Street, which was new. The army doctor has also informed Molly about their latest case- an enticing dominatrix, who uses her skills of seduction to gain leverage over the powerful. John had whispered to her, under the promise she'd keep it hush-hush, that the woman had managed to trick Sherlock and drug him while she made her get- away. John then went on to describe their initial introduction, having Molly in fits of laughter in the morgue, her face a furious red and tears collecting at the corners of her eyes. The image of this stunning woman, naked and uninhibited, on top of the sexually repressed detective, her teeth biting seductively into the dog collar he'd used as part of his disguise, kept her giggling all week. Whoever Irene Adler was, Molly definitely wanted to shake the woman's hand.

With that knowledge, Molly wasn't surprised that Sherlock was rather grumpy come Christmas Eve. Defeat for a man with an ego the size of London was unacceptable. It pushed him to say things he previously wouldn't have, to lash out when vulnerable, as ever alpha-male tends to.

She hadn't quite expected that she would be target of his frustrations. Well, her lacking breast and lip size, her purposefully over-the-top outfit and make-up, and the gag gift she'd bought him from a bargain store near her flat.

"You always say horrible things, Sherlock. Always," She accuses, as a stifling silence grips the flat. Sherlock glances down at the tag that reads; **Merry Christmas you git! Have a crappy New Year :)** He looks up at her, the sickening taste of defeat in his mouth and catches her red lips tip into a smirk. Losing to smart, feisty women was becoming a habit of his. "But they would hurt a lot more if they were actually true. I'm also slightly alarmed by the interest you've taken in the size of my lips and breasts."

The moment is broken by an unusual text alert on Sherlock's phone. As the detective is distracted by that, she flashes John a triumphant smile over her wine glass, evoking a heart chuckle from the doctor.

There's no sense of loss of not getting to bask in her moment of one-upping Sherlock Holmes. It doesn't take a genius to put together that the dominatrix is responsible for Sherlock's erotic new text alert. Molly feels a feminine sense of pride that Irene Adler, a woman Sherlock would most likely anticipate to be little challenge for the world's only consulting detective, had proved a difficult, wily opponent.

That feeling dissipated come the light of Christmas morning, when Mike calls, sheepishly informing her she's required at St Barts, because there's a body in the morgue which the Holmes men needed to come in and identify.

There's a coldness in her bones, not caused by the baltic air of morgue, as she lifts the sheet to reveal the body of who she presumes to be Irene Adler. Sherlock appears just as frigid, his eyes stony as he glances over the woman's battered body, nodding his confirmation of her identity. Molly has witnessed that nod a hundred times. Sometimes accompanied by quivering lips, heart-broken wails, glittering eyes. Sherlock has none of that. There's something in his eyes though, a reverence for a foe who was as cunning as she was beautiful.

As the Holmes' men depart, she draws the sheet back over the woman with deliberate care, wishing she could have meet the woman who'd beaten Sherlock Holmes, who'd manage to shake his cold exterior. Perhaps she would have been proof there was hope for him yet.

* * *

Soon, the monochrome colours of Christmas, white snow and black skies, transform into the bright colours of spring. But with the closing of spring brings the return of darkness in Molly Hooper's life with one visit from a certain crime-solving duo.

"It's Moriarty?"

Sherlock shoots John one of his 'isn't-it-obvious' looks. "Course it's Moriarty."

"Jim wasn't actually my boyfriend." Molly states, a scowl forming on her face. There was her good mood gone. "We went out three times. I ended it."

"Yes, and he stole the Crown Jewels, broke into the Bank of England and organized a prison break at Pentonville. For the sake of law and order I suggest you avoid all future attempts at a relationship, Molly." Sherlock fires back, a haughty smile on his lips, before flounces off into the lab.

"I wished he'd stayed in Dartmoor," Molly mutters to John under her breath.

"What was that?" Sherlock calls out from a distance in front of them.

Molly plasters bogus smile across her face. "Nothing."

"This not the time for jokes, Molly," Sherlock admonishes.

For once, she agrees with the detective. Jim Moriarty is no joke. The man had used her loneliness, her displeasure at being perpetually single, to his advantage. All to get to Sherlock. How had she been so blind? There were no obvious signs, no glaring clues to tip her off to his true nature. His smile, open and kind, had always been accompanied by a brightness to his brown eyes. His grip was soft, never tightened, or bruised. When warm fingers had brushed across her cheek at the end of date number two, she didn't feel discomfort at his touch. Months on, she couldn't comprehend her own foolishness. Still she had yet to recover her trust in her instincts, especially since they'd failed her so tremendously.

Suddenly, in a spike of thought, she wonders if Sherlock feels the same.

In the luminous lights of the lab, his pale skin glows, contrasted against the darkness of his shirt and hair. Posture bent out of shape for a man who has been conditioned by years of private school to sit up straight. His downcast eyes, peering over a microscope, look adrift in thought. _Lost._ Her eyes scan the rest of the room, spotting John firing off a text on his mobile, his attention distracted. When John's eyes return to the room, Sherlock's back is ram-rod straight and gaze is focused solely on the chemical he's examining.

_Trust your instincts, _her mind, her gut, her heart tell her in synchronisation. So she does.

"You look sad," The words are as awkward, as uncomfortable as she feels. Telling him about something as personal as the loss of her father makes her feel stripped raw. But she continues. "When you think he can't see you." Her eyes shift pointedly to the army doctor on the other side of the room. " Are you okay? Don't just say you are, because I know what that means—looking sad when you think no one can see you."

This totally unchartered territory for her and the detective. She informs him about causes of death, gifts him body parts when she's in a good mood. Shares the occasional gibe and insult. They don't take interests in each other's well-being.

"You can see me."

It's a deflection. A way to deviate away from a distressing conversation. Molly can't find it in her to blame him. Weakness is difficult to share with the ones you love, let alone someone who is practically a stranger.

Strangers, that's what they are really. Sherlock carries his air of pompous superiority as a suit of armour underneath his tight shirts and expensive fitted trousers. She has no idea who he really is. All she has to trust is her instincts.

"I don't count." She utters, quiet and soft. It's a not a slight on herself, shes knows her own worth as a pathologist and a person. But she's aware enough to know that doesn't mean she matters to Sherlock. "What I'm trying to say is, if there's anything I can do—anything you need, anything at all—you can have me." She winces internally at the stunted phrase. The cringe-worthy conversation is worth it, if it means she can assist in taking down Moriarty.

The conversations ends with no real conclusions drawn, because despite her convictions, her ability to help is limited. Any conflict in her life, she fights with wit and words. This battle may require more than that.

So that leaves her with only one thing to do. To trust her instincts, to trust Sherlock, however strange that may be.

* * *

"You're wrong, you know. You do count. You've always counted and I've always trusted you. But you were right. I'm not okay." Sherlock looks pained in face of his confessions._ Trust, _there's that magic, nebulous word again.

Her heart pounds disbelieving at the words. But she has to have faith in the sincerity in them. "Tell me what's wrong."

"I think I'm going to die."

Molly has to repress rolling her eyes at him. This man, with his ridiculous coat and his precious curls, has a tendency to be over-dramatic. "What do you need?"

Sherlock gazes down at her in the dim light of the morgue, his eyes broody and serious. "If I wasn't everything I think I am, would you still want to help me?"

Molly fights the urge to reply with_ 'If you were everything you think you are, I wouldn't have offered you my help in the first place.' "_What do you need?" She repeats, an answer to his question and an a edge of frustration in her tone.

His tone is begrudging, as if the words stick stubbornly in his throat. _"You._"


	3. Haunting

_Sherlock's dead._

The words are etched in grief, every syllable dripping in utter shock. Molly worries John Watson will crumble under a weight of agony.

Their plan had worked. They'd foiled Moriarty's grand plans- saved John, Mrs Hudson and Greg. It should have felt like a win. But it didn't.

_Sherlock's dead._

Molly abandons the experiment she'd been pretending to do, enveloping John into her steady arms. He lays a weary head on her shoulder, his hands limp and lifeless by his sides. "He jumped, Molly. Why would he do that?" He asks when he raises his head back up. His face is marred with lines of agony. "Why?" John repeats, a painful whisper that stabs into Molly's chest.

It plays in her mind, a sorrowful repetition._Why?_

Even months on, with the dreadful funeral overcome and the initial state of shock gone, John was no better.

"I still can't believe it," He tells her, one snowy November afternoon they meet for a coffee. She has to pester him for weeks and weeks about it before he relents. John's fingers trace the rim of his mug, his movement slow and weary. "The worst part is no-one believes he was real. They think he was fraud. He wasn't, Molly. I swear it."

"I know, John," She assures. Even with the truth, even knowing that at some point down the line Sherlock will be vindicated, she can't bear to hear him slandered. Throws away all papers with headlines about 'The Fraud Detective.' Snaps at two students joking about jumping off St Bart's roof, _'just like that dodgy detective did.'_ Rage wells up in her just thinking about it. "Sherlock Holmes was many things, but a fake is not one of them. I know that, John."

"Thanks Molly," He says, quiet and sad. The tough, but warm John Watson has been reduced to grief ridden whispers and heavy frowns.

This is the price she pays. Sherlock had sworn they were saving lives. Molly only feels like they've destroyed them. Fears they've done more damage than any bullet, or knife or flame could have ever inflicted. So while Sherlock swans around the world, dismantling the remains of Moriarty's vast network, she is tasked with trying to piece back together the mess he's left behind.

* * *

"Sherlock?" She mumbles, rubbing her bleary eyes. Her slippers plod against her kitchen floor. "What are you doing here?"

"I'm bleeding into your sink, obviously," He retorts, shooting her a sharp look over his shoulder. Molly moves closer to see the red liquid gushing from his hand to stain the steel of her sink. He twists the tap to let some of the blood be captured by the water, washing it away down the sinkhole.

Molly's usually sharp mind, hindered by sluggishness, finally snaps back into attention. "That'll need stitches," She says, opening up one of her cupboards and begins to rummage purposefully. "I've got an old medical kit in here somewhere." With the green box hastily laid down on her worktop, she sets herself into doctor mode. She offers her palm out, her words a calm, assured demand. "Let me see it."

The flow of blood has lessened, now a steady drip, but wound doesn't look as deep as she first thought.

"Will I live?" Sherlock enquires, his voice a tired rumble. There's a teasing smile on his lips that's far too happy for the state he's in.

Molly gives a faux sigh. "Unfortunately, yes."

They share a familar smile, then let silence fall as Molly cleans his wound.

"Should I ask what the other guy looks like?" Molly asks, arching her eyebrow as she takes in his bruised face.

"Best not," Sherlock replies, his mouth pressed into a thin line.

"This is a good look for you. The bruises, the cuts," She says, smirking as she prepares the needle. Her brown eyes look playful even while narrowed, crinkling at the edges. "Makes you look a bit roughish."

Sherlock takes Molly's comments in jest. "I did want to be a pirate when I was a child. I was very committed to it. Had a dog called Redbeard."

"That does not surprise me in the slightest," She laughs. Sherlock winces at the uncomfortable feel of the needle going through his skin and the inevitable pull of the stitches. "Sherlock?"

"Yes?" His reply is curt- clearly he doesn't a very high pain threshold. Something for her to remember.

"When are you going to tell John you're not dead?" She asks, though her eyes, dark and focused, stay fixed on Sherlock's cut, precisely threading each stitch. That doesn't mean she doesn't notice how warm his skin is against hers, despite the colder temperatures in London at the moment.

Sherlock blinks rapidly. "Not until I've finished taking apart Moriarty's network."

"But that could take years!" Molly complains, tugging the needle excessively hard. As to punish him a tiny bit for the grief he has caused John Watson. Retribution. Her tone is serious, soft, losing it's usual lightness. "He's a wreck, Sherlock. He needs to know the truth."

"John Watson was a solider, Molly," Sherlock argues, but his eyes do not meets hers with fire, but with oceans of regret. "He's far more resilent than most would expect. He'll be fine."

* * *

For once, she is exceedily happy about Sherlock being right.

It's a dreary Autumn afternoon, the grey clouds low in sky when she arrives reluctantly at the cafe. She fiddles with her scarf and hair anxiously, a silly fear that her scarf is too bright, too colourful. Afraid to look too happy in the face of misery.

All that worry vanishes as John peers up at her and smiles. Not a grim, tight lipped attempt, but with the wamth, the genuinity of the John Watson she had previously known.

"I've met someone," John explains, sipping on his coffee, the smile an ever-present feature on his face. His eyes, a strange blue, are alive with something other than grief. His hands are lively as he talks about this new woman he'd met at work; blonde and cheeky and assertive. Strong arms surround around her petite frame as they part outside the cafe in the pouring rain.

Neither of them mention Sherlock.

It's akin to starting anew. The walk back to her flat, with the rain peeling down, washes away the dirty, clinging guilt she's had ever since Sherlock jumped off that god-forsaken building. Replaced by hope that when Sherlock does have his triumphant return, she'll be able to stare John Watson in the eye. Tell him the bare, honest truth- that she had seen the good he'd told her about in Sherlock Holmes and that's why she's done terrible, terrible things in order to help him.

John Watson's happiness gives her a freedom she hasn't felt in a year. To say yes to the guy her best friend Meena had been trying to set her up with months. To enjoy herself when she does finally go on that date. To _smile, and laugh and sing_ when the whim should take her.

* * *

It doesn't, however, give her freedom from Sherlock Holmes. No, he likes to pop up every time her memory of him gets a bit foggy. When she forgets that he's still out there, alive and smug as ever.

The next time Sherlock stumbles into her flat; it's with a bloody nose, a plethora of bruises and two fractured ribs. And a question that's been pondering his mind since his last visit.

"What did you want to be when you were a child?" Sherlock manages to grit out through his teeth. Her hands still their prodding at his ribs, her eyes cutting to his face to shoot him a questioning look. "Last time I was here, I told you I wanted to be pirate when I was younger. I'm curious about your aspirations as a child."

"I wanted to be a ballerina. The pain of a twisted ankle stopped that dream short," Molly reveals, a wry smile on her lips. She moves to hold a cloth against Sherlock's nose to stem the bloodflow, now she's certain it's not broken. "Then when I was older, I wanted to be a doctor. Like a surgeon, or a physician."

"What changed your mind?" He questions, a genuine curiosity in his probing eyes. The ease at which she deals with a live paitent suggests untapped potential. His lip twitches upwards before he speaks again. "Apart from your terrible bedside manner."

Sherlock regrets the comment as soon he feels the cloth pressed harder against his injured nose. "I don't know," She responds, but despite the quietness of the whisper, Sherlock still picks up on the lie.

Molly doesn't consider it a lie. Hiding the truth, perhaps, yes. She's gotten used to doing that now. Because despite the joining together of their minds to defeat Moriarty, Molly only has hints to real Sherlock Holmes. He appears rigid and unmoved, and yet has a playfulness; an ease about him which Molly is growing to like. Sometimes he's quiet, serious and deep thinking, and with click of a finger; he has a child-like, loud enthusiasm to him. A self-proclaimed sociopath; whose love for his friends made him willing to sacrifice his home, his career, his life as he knew it. The man is a mass of painful contradictions.

It's why she finds herself constantly hovering between despising the man and having a genuine affection for him.

"My dad died," She blurts out, her heart making the decision before her brain can catch up. Sherlock's brow furrows and she realises just how long she waited before speaking again. "That's what changed my mind about being a doctor. Made me rethink a lot of things, in fact," She clarifies, moving the cloth away from his nose finally. She peers down at his pale, alien eyes and sharp cheekbones to smile indulgently. "And even he told me I had a terrible bedside manner."

A chuckle shakes Sherlock's shoulders. "Your father sounds like an honest man," Sherlock says, a smile on his face that's a bit too amused to be sympathetic. Good, she never wants sympathy.

"He was," She says, and a love that forever lies in her heart shines through her eyes. Translucent blue meets warm brown; open, unguarded, completely vulnerable. "Go take a shower," She says softly, eyes shifting over his features, checking one last time for injuries she's missed. "Because no offence- but you really _stink."_

She evokes another surprised, barked laugh for the consulting detective. He gets up from his chair, his dirty t-shirt clinging to his lean body, his back to her as he makes his way to her bathroom. "Your charm is definitely wasted in pathology, Molly," He teases, his head turning to catch her reaction. His mussed curls, his strong jaw highlighted as he throws her a his lazy grin strike her silent for a second. For a moment, she can appreciate his raw beauty, stark before her eyes.

And then moment dissolves, slipping away like a ghost in the night. Because that's all Sherlock essentially is- a faded, beautiful ghost, alive to most only in memory. But not to her.

"Sod off, Sherlock," She calls out, as the door clicks shut. Sorrow floods her heart for the man behind the door and the people who believe him to be dead. _Sod off, Sherlock,_ she repeats, _but please, please come back._ Because John and Mrs Hudson and Greg deserve more than a ghost.

She too, though she can hardly bare to admit it, craves more than just memories.


End file.
